


A Very Drunk Christmas

by Lady In A Tux (CollateralDamage666)



Series: Holidays at 221B [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Holidays, M/M, Post Reichenbach, References to Suicide, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 11:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollateralDamage666/pseuds/Lady%20In%20A%20Tux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all starts on Christmas.  Christmas three years after the brilliant Sherlock Holmes takes his life.  Christmas when the man himself shows up from the dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Very Drunk Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> You have no idea how hard it was to get this out before midnight, Christmas day. My internet kept kicking out and my cousins were giving me a headache and trying to write on my computer. But, finally, here we are.
> 
> Unbetaed and unbritpicked.

“Merry Christmas,” John slurs, drunk on cheap wine and tips his wine glass toward the other one sitting on the table.  Next to the skull.  Sherlock had never given the thing a name, said it was so stupidly oversentimental he couldn’t believe the idea had even crossed John’s mind.  John wondered what he thought of naming cats, or if calling the creature by its animal name was enough for the genius.  Well, the dead genius.  In absence of the lanky detective, John had taken to calling the skull “Sherlock,” even going so far as pretend the bone was that of Sherlock’s, though he knew it was impossible.

Sherlock was buried six feet under in a coffin.  His skull would be cracked, too.  John remembered every detail of that fatal day, including the blood seeping out of the man’s skull, plastering his usual fuzzy hair to his temple.  His silver eyes had been so lifeless, so pale next to the red that covered the man’s face, seeping over the pavement beneath him.  But then he had been scurried away from the sidewalk, taken away to be pronounced dead.  But the image stayed, burning itself into John’s eyes and every time he closed his eyes, he saw it there, Sherlock’s dead eyes staring up at him.

He almost dropped the wine glass as it clinked against the other, the too full glass sloshing onto the table, but he didn’t notice, quickly guzzling the ruby liquid down, no longer feeling the burn of alcohol in his throat.  He was in an intoxicated haze now, and he rather liked it.  There was no pain and no memories, just a lovely cloud made of wine bottles that clinked whenever he moved.  It was a lovely sound, he supposed, much like that of the bells of angels, if they had such things he supposed.

“You’re not gonna drink yer glass?  Fine.  I’ve got it,” he picked up “Sherlock’s” glass and tipped it back, tapping it against his tongue when no more drops rained out.  He clambered to his feet and almost crashed to the ground immediately as his right foot landed on a wine bottle, which spun out from under him and shot across the floor, spinning to a stop in the kitchen.  He sighed and stooped to collect the other bottles around his chair, and there were quite a few, spinning a bit in dizziness every time he stood up straight once more.

Clattering back to the kitchen, tottering on his unsteady feet, he deposited all the empty bottles into the sink to dispose of properly later.  He wasn’t sober enough at the moment, not to mention he would probably kill himself just by trying to walk down the stairs.  He turned toward the one that had spun in earlier and held it up to the light, noticing that there was still a bit of wine near the bottom of the bottle.  No sense in wasting any alcohol while it was still- he paused and frowned, staring at the bottle he had just started tilting toward his mouth.  He was turning into his sister.  His dead sister, who had died in a crash just last year for drinking too much.

He dropped the bottle as though it had burnt him and slammed back up against the wall as the bottle shattered against the ground, trying to back away from the shards of glass that sprayed out from the impact.  There was a small pool of wine on the ground, too, and he briefly wondered if the red alcohol would stain the floor.  A white wine would have probably been a better one to drop if he had really needed to do such a thing.  It wasn’t like he was going out driving after this.  He wasn’t anything like his sister.  It was just Christmas.  And being alone.

He was cursed, he had decided.  People he cared about always died, so why get close to anyone?  Sherlock would have called him an idiot, but John had practically withdrawn from society now except to slink out to work to pay his half of the rent and the store so he wouldn’t starve.  He had cut off contact with Lestrade, who had tried to get him to take on cases the first few months after Sherlock’s death, but after decline after decline, the man had finally given up, even on getting John to join him at a night out at the nearby pub.  Mycroft was probably still hovering somewhere in the shadows, keeping an eye on him, and he was most likely the reason why John was still only paying for half the rent on the flat.  Mrs. Hudson he saw the most of, but she generally stayed out of his way.  She knew he needed space and he was grateful for that.  In return, he helped if she needed any maintenance done in her flat.

He bent to pick up a particularly nasty shard of the bottle and reeled back up when his head began to spin.  Holding it out, he stared down at the dark glass, looking at the sharp cut in it.  He ran a finger down the side and didn’t even know it was cutting into his skin until blood pooled up on his fingertip and dripped down to the ground to mingle with the wine already there, red mixing with red.  It looked no differently to him, really, in his drunk state.  It was all just red blood to him.  He wondered how many cuts it would take before all his red had rushed out of his body, leaving him a dry husk.  He would very much like to try this experiment out.  Maybe try it on the neck first, get the red flowing quicker.

There was a hand, sturdy, on his wrist, and he turned to find himself looking at a chest.  It was clothed in dark coat and he had to tilt his head back to actually find the face that belonged to the chest.  Silver eyes stared back at him.  Disappointed, sad, silver eyes if he could decipher them correctly in his state.  These were the eyes that haunted him, stared at him from the darkness behind his eyelids, dipping into his dreams that were usually filled with explosions and sand, filling the desert with silver and red.  But now they were bright, alive.  John couldn’t speak any of the words in his throat, finding himself choking on his own tongue.

“Sher-“ was the only thing he managed to get out before he found himself bubbling and crying, drunken tears running down his face.  He knew he would be ashamed of himself later and that this could be a hallucination brought on by the alcohol, but at this moment he could bring himself to care a bit.  He pried his arm loose from the man’s hold and pulled him close, sobbing into the black coat.  He felt the taller man awkwardly pat his back.  After that, it was all a blur.  He remembered lashing out, pain lancing through his arm as he dealt a quick blow from a wrong angle, but he remembered the satisfaction he got at the same time as his knuckles connected with Sherlock’s cheekbone.  After that was yelling, all one sided.  He was pretty sure Sherlock had just taken it, standing there looking meek.  And then John had practically collapsed and Sherlock had had to drag him to a bed.

It was Sherlock’s bed, he realized, rolling over onto his chest and immediately regretting his decision as his stomached turned in retaliation.  He had sat up and immediately a waste container had been shoved into his hands not moments before his stomach heaved and he spent the next few minutes emptying it into the bin until he was just dry heaving, tears still running down his face, but this time from the throwing up.  A hand was on his back, warm and comforting, rubbing circles into his skin through his jumper and shirt.  When the heaving was finally over and he could finally come up for some fresh air, a tissue was handed to him and he wiped off his mouth, spitting into the bin one last time before he released his hold on the container and let Sherlock take it away.

It was silent for a bit while the man was gone and John was done with all his bodily messes.  He rubbed a hand over his eyes, feeling a bit more sober than he had before, but knew that alcohol was still rushing through his system.  He glanced down at his clothes and did a double take when he saw a red mess splattered across the front of his jumper.  He grabbed the edges of it and tried pulling it up over his head.  He managed to get it halfway off, the material covering his face and most of his arms still when he found his fingers had stopped cooperating with his brain.  His arms were left floundering in the air like fish pulled out of the water.  Then there were other hands pulling and tugging at the material before it was finally lifted away and he could breath again.

“Well that jumper’s ruined,” he sighed, falling backward onto the bed again.

“Good riddance,” came the smooth reply and John lost himself in a fit of giggles.  He worked his numb fingers at the edge of his shirt, trying to pull off this offending material, too, but found he was once again helpless and had to wait while Sherlock pulled it off for him.  His jeans got thrown to the corner of the room rather forcefully when he found he could at least get those off.  He slipped under the covers  – Sherlock’s covers, he had to keep reminding himself of that – and nestled up against the pillow.  Sherlock was still there when he opened his eyes and looked up, though his coat had been removed sometime during the past few minutes.  Now that he could just look at him, he noticed his hair was shorter, too.

Sherlock stared back, blinking slowly at him.  He wasn’t sure how long they stared at the other, but it was Sherlock who finally broke it by leaning away, fingers working at the buttons on his dress shirt.  When Sherlock was in his pants, he slipped into his usual pajamas and moved to the other side of the bed, sliding under the sheets.  He knew Sherlock was facing away from him, so he didn’t turn to face the man.  It was silent, but he knew the other man wasn’t sleeping.  The spaces between his breaths were too short and uneven.  Sherlock was nervous.  John smiled.  Maybe a bit more of the man had rubbed off on him than he had realized.

“I’ll have to remember to thank Santa for the great Christmas gift this year.  He’s been slacking off the past 30 odd years or so.”

He heard Sherlock give out a huff of laughter, “I do hope this is just the liquor talking and you don’t actually still believe in a fat man who wears red and breaks into people’s houses.”

“You mean to tell me Santa isn’t real, Sherlock?  No wonder everyone hates you,” By the harsh intake of breath, he knew that was the wrong thing to say, “Did you know that Sally still talks about you.  I’ve never wanted to punch a woman as much as I’ve wanted to punch her.  I always believe in you, you know.”

“I know.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?  I don’t deserve thanks.”

“For coming back.  For preforming one last miracle.  Thank you.”

It was silent until finally there came a smiling, “Get some sleep, John.  You’re drunk.”

And, just like that, John was out like a light.


End file.
